A NINE DAYS' SCANDAL.
And this was the end of Julian Edermont's high spirits. For twenty
years he had dreaded and guarded himself against a violent death; but
the moment that the fear had been removed the end came. There was
something ironical in the way in which Fate had lulled his suspicions
only to smite the surer. One day he had been rejoicing in the thought
that the reign of terror was over; the next he lay dead under his own
roof-tree, and none knew who had slain him.
They found the body in the study, lying near the desk, which was
broken open and terribly damaged. As Meg, the cook, stated, his head
was smashed in like a pumpkin, and near by lay the weapon with which
the deed had been done--a Zulu knobkerrie, which had been torn from
the decorative weapons of the wall. Dora was an exceptionally brave
woman, cool in danger and collected in trouble; but even she felt
qualmish to see that revered head all beaten, all splashed with gore.
The place was like a shambles. Amid the blood lay a pistol, near to
the hand of the dead man, and many papers were scattered about it,
tossed in confusion from the bureau.
Mr. Edermont had been nothing more to Dora than her legal guardian. He
had been a selfish, cowardly creature, who had done nothing to win her
love; yet, as Dora looked at the body lying there, red with blood,
battered, and beaten, and bruised, she felt at once sorry and angered.
The first, that so harmless--so far as she knew--a creature had been
so cruelly done to death; the second, that his assassin had escaped.
However, as the deed was done, and the man was dead, no time was to be
lost in raising the alarm. It was just possible that the murderer
might be secured if prompt measures were taken.
Dora knew now that the cry she had heard in the night had been no
fancy, no dreaming, but a terrible reality; and the striking of the
clock immediately afterwards enabled her to fix the exact time when
the crime had been committed. However, she was wise enough to say
nothing on the point until called upon to do so. But raising, with the
aid of Meg, the dead body on to the sofa, she sent the woman across
the road to summon Joad. Hardly had she issued the order when the
voice of that very person, in surprised tones, was heard in the
drawing-room off the study.
Considerably astonished at his early arrival, for it was not yet eight
o'clock, Dora ran into the next room. At the door she paused in sheer
amazement. The glass door at the side of the apartment had no shutters
up, and was wide open, while Joad was looking through it, apparently
as much taken aback by her appearance as she was by his.
"What is it? What is it?" he demanded hastily. "This door ajar--the
postern gate open--you here----"
"The postern gate open?" cried Dora suddenly. "The assassin must have
escaped that way."
"Assassin! What do you mean?" stammered the new-comer, turning pale
with fright.
"Come in at once, Mr. Joad, and I will show you. The sight requires no
explanation."
Still amazed, Joad heaved his fat body through the door, and followed
Dora into the room of death. When he saw what had taken place--the
blood on the floor, the dead body on the sofa--his jaw dropped, his
skin turned the colour of a dirty yellow, and he stared dumbfounded at
the sight. So long did he remain in his semi-trance, that Dora was
obliged to shake him by the elbow to bespeak his attention.
"You see Mr. Edermont has been murdered. Meg found him like that when
she came to clean up the study."
"Aye, I did for sure!" cried Meg, her coarse face blanched with dread.
"Master did not lock kitchen last night, and I found doors all wide. I
came here with broom and dust-pan, and there I saw he with poor head
bashed to jelly."
Joad approached the sofa and examined the body, then reverently spread
his handkerchief over the disfigured face.
"My poor friend!" he muttered with emotion. "And you thought that you
were safe!"
"Does that mean you know who killed him?" asked Dora, making a step
forward.
"No, I do not know who killed him. Julian was always afraid that he
would be murdered by a certain person; but who that person is, or why
he should desire Julian's death, I know no more than you do."
Dora only believed half of this statement. From what she had seen it
would appear that Joad had been completely in the confidence of the
dead man, and his denial seemed to be unnecessary. However, she made
no comment on the speech, but with sudden suspicion asked Joad how it
was he had come to the Red House before his usual time. He guessed
what was in her mind, and laughed slyly.
"If you think I know anything of this terrible deed, you are wrong,"
said he slowly; "it is not likely I should kill the only friend I have
in the world, and reduce myself to beggary."
"Good heavens, Mr. Joad! I never accused you of such a thing!" cried
Dora indignantly.
"Nevertheless, you thought it, Miss Carew," he replied smoothly, "and
you deemed that I had come thus early to look at my handiwork. You are
wrong: it's my custom to take a short walk to get an appetite for
breakfast. In crossing the fields, I saw to my amazement that the
postern door was open. Knowing that Julian was particular to keep it
locked, I went to see what was the matter. I came up to the house, and
saw the side door was open also. In my surprise I uttered an
ejaculation, and you appeared. You know the rest."
Dora did know the rest, but she did not know who had killed her
guardian. However, now that a man was on the spot, she wished him to
take the management of the matter into his own hands. But Joad
declined to saddle himself with any such responsibility. He said that
Dora was a New Woman, who thought that the weaker sex was the stronger
of the two. This being the case, Mr. Joad suggested that she should
prove her boast by assuming the position of the necessary male. Dora
was annoyed at his niggling arguments, and disgusted at his laziness;
but, not deeming the matter worth discussing, she took all authority
into her own hands.
They proved to be very capable hands. She sent a man to Canterbury for
the police, and put them in charge of the body and the house. To the
inspector she related all she knew, and Meg followed suit. As for
Joad, he interviewed the authorities on his own account, and gave the
same unvarnished statement as he had given to the two women. Mr.
Inspector heard all that was to be heard, saw all that was to be seen;
and after leaving a couple of policemen in charge, he returned to
Canterbury to rack his brains as to the whereabouts of the assassin.
He also detailed a doctor to examine the body; and with this doctor
came Allen.
The young man appeared haggard and ill. His face was pale, his eyes
were wild, and he looked as though he had been sitting up for several
nights in succession. When he saw Dora he made no effort to embrace or
kiss her, but stood before her with downcast eyes, like a detected
criminal. The girl was profoundly astonished at this conduct.
Ordinarily Scott was blithe and light-hearted, with a smile and a word
for everybody. Now he looked dejected and worried, and had not a word
to say, even to the girl to whom he was betrothed. After a time Dora,
finding him so unsatisfactory, took him to her own sitting-room, and
sat him in a chair. Then she spoke bluntly, and with some anger, which
was surely natural.
"I am glad to see you, Allen," she said abruptly, "as I wish to have
an explanation of your singular conduct."
"I have none to give you," he said, flushing.
"Indeed! Then why did you come over to-day?"
"I heard of this murder, for one thing," said Allen slowly; "and for
another, I wish to put an end to our engagement."
Dora started. She remembered the prophecy of Mrs. Tice and of the dead
man. It had come true sooner than she expected, and in a fashion she
did not anticipate. Many things might have arisen to prevent their
marriage, but if she and Allen were true to one another, she hoped to
overleap all obstacles. But here was the man himself--the man who had
vowed a thousand times that he could not live without her--and he
proposed to part. She could hardly believe her ears; and from outraged
pride tears sprang to her eyes.
"I thought you loved me, Allen!" said she, then flung herself on the
sofa and sobbed as though her heart would break.
Dr. Scott rose suddenly, and stood looking down at her, his face
working with passion. He would fain have taken her in his arms; he
would have assured her of his love and undying fidelity. But between
him and Dora a shadow was standing--the shadow of a dead man.
"I do love you, Dora," said Allen, as soon as he could command his
voice; "I shall always love you; but I can never make you my wife."
"But why? What is your reason?"
"I dare not tell you my reason; but you shall learn this much: Mr.
Edermont told me something which parts us for ever."
"What did he tell you?"
"I dare not say."
Dora rose slowly and looked steadily into his face. His eyes dropped
before hers, and he would have turned away, but she compelled him to
face her.
"Allen, you know who killed Mr. Edermont."
"No, no! As God is in heaven I do not!" he said vehemently. "I have my
suspicions, but they count as nothing. Don't ask me anything, Dora,
for I can tell you nothing."
"At least tell me why you wish our engagement ended," said she, very
pale.
"I cannot," he groaned, and sank into a chair.
"Then listen to me, Allen," she said in a firm voice. "Until you tell
me the reason of this conduct I refuse to release you from the
engagement. I love you; you say that you love me; so there is no
reason why we should part. If you will not speak, others will; and I
shall devote myself to finding out the truth. When I do find it," she
added slowly, "then we may part. Until then"--her voice rose--"you are
my affianced husband."
Allen rose from his chair and walked slowly towards the window, where
he stood looking out at the green lawn, the brilliant sunshine. In his
then mood of self-torture and sorrow, the brightness of the day seemed
a cruel contrast to his own dark thoughts. His life was over, his joys
were at an end; a deadly trouble, greater than he could bear, had come
upon him. Yet the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, the sunlight bathed
stretches of green grass and clumps of stately trees in its golden
rays, as in mockery of his puny grief and trivial ruin. The contrast
struck him as so ironical that he burst into bitter laughter; but the
mirth thus wrung from his breaking heart ended in a sigh of regret.
"Why do you laugh, Allen?" asked Dora, scared by this cruel merriment.
"Why do you not answer?"
"I laugh because of the contrast between the joy of Nature and our own
sorrows," he replied, turning his pale face towards her, "and I did
not reply because I was thinking."
"You heard what I said?"
He took her hands within his own, and looked at her anguished face
with a great love in his eyes.
"I heard you, and I agree," said he softly. "God bless you for a good
woman, Dora, for you have behaved nobly. Many a woman would have cast
me off in scorn for my refusal to speak. But you are content to wait
in hope. Alas, my darling!" he cried, with a burst of sorrow; "there
is no hope; there never can be hope. You and I are parted as surely as
though the one were following the other to the graveyard."
"But, Allen, we have committed no sin. Why should we part?"
"Because of the sins of others. Our trouble comes from the past, Dora,
and it was that dead man who revealed it to me. Did I tell you what he
said, you would agree with me that the only thing left to us is to
kiss and part. But I dare not tell you; in mercy to yourself I spare
you the burden of the secret which has made my life so bitter."
"I know that you act in all kindness, Allen, but you are wrong. It
would be better to tell me all, and let me share your troubles. I am
strong; I can bear anything."
"Not this, not this," replied Allen, releasing her hands and going to
the door; "it would wreck your life, your happiness, as it has wrecked
mine."
"Happiness!" she said in a tone of despair; "I have done with that."
"I hope not. Oh, my dear, I trust not. Time may bring you the content
that I cannot give you. I accept your noble offer, Dora. Let us still
continue our engagement, although we must rarely meet. But if you are
wise, you will not seek to know the secret. It will bring you no good,
only evil. For your own sake I keep silent. I can do no more; I can do
no less."
He paused at the door, looking at her sadly. She stood in the centre
of the room, a quiet and sorrowful figure in her black dress. Allen
returned, and kissed her twice on the forehead; then he left her under
the same roof as the dead man, and passed out of her life--as he
thought--for ever.